


Plane Chat

by Winstonian1



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-08-17 13:11:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16517114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winstonian1/pseuds/Winstonian1
Summary: The flight between America's West Coast and London takes eleven hours. That's a long time for two exhausted Beatles, George and John, to sit together and snooze, chat, laugh, and argue





	1. Chapter 1

** Take off **

****

“You can open your eyes now.”

So George Harrison did open his eyes; a lifelong, almost Pavlovian and more or less unconscious reaction. He usually did what John suggested. Or, at least, he usually trusted him enough to be able to do what he suggested. In day to day conscious life George might often resist John’s commands or suggestions, at least for as long as it took to weigh them up and search for mockery, piss take or simple lack of judgement. But, emerging from the fog of combined acute fear and dragging exhaustion, he just reacted, and opened his eyes.

He hadn’t known John was sitting next to him, hadn’t felt him land there. So he blinked at him quizzically.

“And you can get this down you.” John was offering a glass of what looked like and probably was rum and coke; George saw that John had one too.

“But you’ll have to let go of the arm rest if you want to take it.”

He looked down at his own right hand, and saw that the knuckles were still white as he gripped the arm rest. He forced himself to smile as he forced himself to let go, and he reached out for the drink. “Ta.” With an almost steady hand, he took a sip, and then a large gulp.

“You ever going to get over this?”

George flicked a dark brown glance over at his friend. “Maybe when you do.”

John acknowledged the retort with a flick of his eyebrows, and raised his own glass in an unspoken ‘touché’. It was widely accepted that George was the Beatle with the deepest phobia of flying, but also that John was not a million miles behind him.

The two young men sat in comfortable silence for a while, while the plane climbed towards its thirty three thousand feet and while they polished off their first glass of anaesthetic. John, with his clear view from his aisle seat, waved at someone, and second glasses were brought promptly. They sat back again. They could tackle the second glass more slowly. Take off was over, and they were still alive.

The second tour of America was over, and they were still alive. And they were going home.


	2. Three Hours In

** Three hours in **

 

“John. George. What did you think of the Shea Stadium show? There’s never been anything like that, has there? What did you think?”

“Yeah, it was… huge.” John did his best, he liked Larry Kane, but he really didn’t feel remotely like being interviewed.

“Yeah, we haven’t seen anything like that. Walking out there…” George contributed, gamefully. He too liked Larry. He smiled encouragingly. “You were there. What did you think?”

There was the invitation for Larry to make it up as he saw fit. Larry Kane smiled understandingly. “It sure looked like fun,” he said, and moved on down the aisle of the plane, and the two Beatles settled back with identical sighs of relief.

Fun.

“Fun,” repeated John, and looked at George with a rueful smile. It had been fun, by the end. Before that, they were helicoptered in, over the awe inspiring sight of Manhattan’s skyline. Landed at the ground and hustled in. Into their dressing room, and it was there that George noticed that John didn’t look right. Not right at all. He strolled over to where John was sitting quietly by himself; that was wrong for a start. He was on one of the couches supplied in the dressing room, and was huddled, the only word for it, legs crossed, and his face grey. “John?” George asked quietly.

John looked up at him, startled; frightened. His eyes were wide and fearful.

“John. What’s up?” He wondered why no-one else had noticed. This wasn’t like John. He sat down on the end of the couch. “D’you feel bad?”

John didn’t answer but just looked at him; yet George got the impression he wasn’t actually seeing him at all. He was looking at something else. Then he saw John glance down at his own clasped hands and flinch, as though there was something there that had made him jump.

And, only then, George realised what was going on.

He pushed himself up from the couch and said, “I’ll be right back.” He looked around the large room and then headed purposefully across to where Neil Aspinall was deep in discussion with Mal. Ignoring their conversation he pushed in, butted in, and spoke quietly but urgently. “Nell, John’s having a trip flash. I need to get him out of here. Ok?”

Neil’s eyes widened in alarm. Where…? Are you sure? What…?”

“He’s over there. I’ll just get him out, walk around. It’ll be fine. Ok?”

George didn’t wait for consent but marched back to where John still sat, still huddled and still grey. “C’mmon,” he said. “John. Let’s go for a walk.” He judged it best not to reach towards him, but just stood over him and talked. “Let’s go out of here. Neil knows. Let’s go out and get a bit of a breather.” He knew it didn’t matter what he said to John, it was just important that his friend knew him for just that, a friend, rather than whatever it might be that he was seeing. “C’mmon,” he said again. “A walk.”

To his relief, John did get to his feet, and, carefully, as though walking in the pitch dark, he followed George towards the door and out into the corridor. The two began to stroll away down towards a corner and another corridor. Of course George had no idea what was down there but it probably didn’t matter. Out of the corner of his eye when glancing around, he saw Mal following at a discreet distance; all was well.

“You’re ok John. It isn’t real. You’re just having a trip flash. You’re fine. It’ll be gone in a minute.” He talked and he kept talking. He had no idea what was the best thing to do in this situation, it had never happened to him before, but he hoped that if he kept going long enough John would come out the other side sooner and brighter than if he was just left on his own in the middle of a bustling frenetic dressing room. “John? You’re fine, aren’t you. Tell me you’re feeling fine. Say I feel fine. Ha ha ha. C’mmon.” They reached the end of the corridor, turned left, past what looked like a row of changing rooms, kept walking. George checked that Mal was still with them.

“Fuckin’ ‘ell.”

George looked carefully at him. “Yeah?” was all he could think of to say to that.

“Fuck.”

The conversation was not the most constructive he’d had, since he had no idea what exactly John was trying to convey. He tried to move it on a bit. “John, how’re you feeling? D’you feel better?”

John turned his head and looked at him. His eyes were still wide, but the expression in them was more one of astonishment than fear, and the grey tinge to his face was fast disappearing. “That was…”

George risked a smile. “Was it?”

“It fucking was.”

“D’you feel ok now?”

“Nearly.”

George stopped walking and waited for John to do the same. “We’d better get back.” He turned, and waited for Mal to catch up with them, giving the beleaguered roadie a thumbs up as he approached to advise him that things were approaching what passed for normal again. “Fancy a smoke, John?”

John’s eyes gleamed. “Just what the doctor ordered,” he said, his wolfish smile finally reassuring George that a potential emergency was diverted.

“I doubt that,” was George’s dry reply. “Mal, can you fix it…?”

Mal Evans, ever faithful and ever sure, correctly interpreted the coded language and nodded. The three men began their walk back to the dressing room and, once safely ensconced inside, he brought over the means to help John Lennon feel much much better. The two settled together in George’s corner, and after the first couple of drags they both wondered whether George had rather overdone the preparation of the monster reefer.

By the time they’d finished it their giggles had attracted attention. “Let’s ‘ave some,” said Paul, so George directed him over to Mal. Getting changed into their military style suits proved challenging. Walking out onto the pitch into a cacophony which even the Beatles had never before experienced could perhaps have come under the heading of an out of the body experience. Once on stage, it just didn’t seem to matter anymore what they did or how they behaved; curiously, with the eyes of 56,000 on them, isolated in the middle of a huge sports pitch, they experienced a sense of freedom to do or say or sing anything they wanted. No-one could hear them anyhow. John and George looned around on the stage, John crazier than he’d been in any show since Hamburg, and their hysterics united them in the midst of preposterous insanity.

“I suppose it was fun,” George remarked, as reached for his drink.

“Yeah. Fun.” John didn’t sound entirely convinced.

“It was, in the end.”

“Yeah.”

“Blame Peter Fonda.

George laughed. “That was _bad!_ ” he said.

“You were in a bit of a rough way.” Illogically, they both found it hard to forgive the Hollywood A lister, who, in the midst of their sunny, poolside acid trip during a break in touring, had in turn angered and then terrified them both with his talk of being shot and knowing what it was like to be dead. “’I know what it’s like to be dead’. He kept fucking saying it.” John was still aggrieved that their trip had been spoiled. “’I know what it’s like to be dead’. He wouldn’t shut up. ‘I know what it’s like to be dead’.

George pondered the advisability of being serious, and decided to go for it. “You helped me out on that,” he said. “Thank you.” He tried to deflect the potential embarrassment factor of the moment by taking a sip of his drink. He was aware of John looking closely at him, and he turned his head and dared to return the gaze.

“You helped me out at Shea. So thank you as well _._ ”

The two young men shared a glance, but only for a moment.

“It was a fucking laugh.”

George smiled, and nodded agreement.


	3. Seven Hours In

** Seven hours in **

 

John nudged George forcibly as he swung himself down into his seat, and George woke with a start. “Hey!” he grumbled. “Pack it in.” He tried to curl up again into a comfortable position, but John thrust a cigarette under his nose and jabbed his arm again.

“Wakey wakey.”

“Oh God,” George mumbled, but pushed himself more upright and took the cigarette, rubbing his eyes and running his hand hard over his face to try to push the sleep away. “Where d’you go?” He lit the cigarette from John’s lighter and leaned back, inhaling deeply.

“Down the end.”

“Who with?”

“Ringo and Derek. Cards.”

“Why didn’t you stay?”

“I lost.”

George made no comment, but just smoked and blinked. “How long we got?”

“Dunno.”

“Mind out.” He grabbed the back of the seat in front of him and pulled himself to his feet. John made a cursory effort to move his legs sideways, and George stepped out from the seats and moved unsteadily down the aisle, leaving John to pull a book out from under his own seat. Yet, he didn’t read any of it, and simply sat, staring vacantly ahead, until George returned a short while later, carrying a cup of tea.

“Where’s mine?”

George shrugged, and slid past John’s legs again and plonked himself down into his seat. “You should’ve got one when you were playing cards.”

“Selfish to the end, that Harrison.”

George drank down half his cup, remarkably none having been spilled on the journey back to the seat, and then looked closely at his travelling companion. “John,” he said. “Are you wired?”

John frowned at him as though dismayed at the accusation, but then gave in and just grinned.

“Oh. So that’s why you won’t let me sleep. Why don’t you find someone else to bother?”

“Cos it’s you I love.”

“Yeah, right.”

They sat together in silence for a while, until George asked, “Will you do it again, do you think?”

John knew instantly what George was referring to, and George knew instantly that he did. These two, friends since school days and locked together in the madness that was The Beatles, had found a closeness and unity and understanding which surpassed even that given by those years and those experiences and which, they both knew with some wonderment, excluded both Paul and Ringo. To be sure, there had been two other people with them on that evening when their dentist had thoughtlessly and insanely slipped LSD into their coffees at the end of a dinner party. But those two still weren’t included; Cynthia had been terrified by the whole thing and Pattie, though she had coped far better than Cynthia, had not experienced the literal life-changing depth that had been had by their respective menfolk.

John and George had been convinced, as they emerged cautiously into the early morning light, that they had stepped into a new level of existence.

It took a while for either of them to find words, to find perspective, to search for context. But one thing each knew was that they could never and would never go back. For George, the glimpse of ecstasy, of unity with all creation, served as nothing more nor less than a target for the rest of his life.  He was enthralled by the phenomenon; he loved the same people whom he had loved before and as far as he was aware he enjoyed the same things he had enjoyed before. But, he loved and enjoyed them as a different person. He loved and enjoyed them from a different place.

For John, the experience was slightly different. He too had seen glimpses of alternative possibilities, yet he still saw himself as the same man who had arrived in all innocence at that dinner party. But now – oh the new excitement, the new opportunities for exploration, for danger, and for fun. So much fun to be had.

Would he do it again, George had queried. Try and stop him. Just try. That dentist had given him just what he so needed; a way out of the borderline depression and the crushing boredom through which he had come to view his whole life. “Yeah! Of course I will.” He looked at George, at the man who would be his companion in his new life. “Will you?”

“Course.” George smiled at him, confidingly. “Shall we…?”

“Yeah! I can’t just do it with Cyn.”

“She had a bad time.”

“She didn’t give it a chance. She can try it again.”

“It’ll be…”

“Yeah.” The two lapsed into silence again, John absently riffling the pages of his book, George running his fingers back through his too long thick fringe and then fluffing it back into place. He stared unseeing out of the small window. “I need this.” John’s voice was suddenly sharp; George turned back to look at him, and saw that his expression seemed to have changed from happy anticipation to an urgency; almost desperation. “I need this Georgie! It’s come at the right time for me. There’s nothing else at home for me anymore.” George frowned in denial but John rushed on. “There isn’t. I’m fucking bored George, there’s nothing I want to do, I’ve done it all. The Beatles is crazy, and all I have to do at home is sit and eat. I’m getting fatter and fatter…”

“No you’re not.”

“…and fatter and fatter…”

“John, don’t be daft!” George was laughing at him. “You make yourself sound like Billy Bunter.”

“I’m miles fatter than I was.”

 “Well, we all are.” George paused, his usual need for accuracy and several rums overcoming the need for tact. “Well, Paul is.”

“Yeah. Exactly!” John jabbed a finger in George’s direction, making a point which completely escaped his companion.

“Eh?”

“You’re not.”

“Not what?”

“Getting fatter and fatter.”

George looked at him, utterly confused as to the new turn this conversation had taken. “No? I s’pose not? Well, I never do, do I. Never have. Bag of bones, me.”

John paused long enough to wave at the hostess again, who this time deemed it sensible to bring the whole bottle. She put it down on the table in front of them and then turned and hurried towards a summons from the other end of the exclusive compartment. John resumed his baffling, baffling to George, tirade. The mood had changed yet again. John had, it seemed, morphed in seconds from high excitement to existential gloom to what suddenly felt like sharp resentment. “You don’t. It’s okay for you.”

George blinked. At first he’d matched John drink for drink, but then he fell asleep and God knows how much John had had  in that time. When John drank he became edgy. When George drank he became woolly. And he hadn’t taken the pills John had. “What is?” he ventured, cautiously.

“Look at you. All cheekbones. You never had them when you were a snotty little kid trailing around after me when I was trying to get my end away. Did you! Where did they come from?”

John stared demandingly at George, as though expecting an answer to this most impossible of questions. Impossible, but probably loaded. George had indeed known John since he was a ‘snotty little kid’, and he was on his guard. However, he couldn’t think of an answer to the apparently important matter of where his cheekbones had come from. He shook his head carefully.

“There’s me, fat as a whale…”

“No you’re not! Don’t be daft! Where…?”

“And there’s you, all chiselled and beautiful, like one of them paintings. How the fuck did that happen, eh?”

“Wha…?”

“Paul’s supposed to be the one, the cute one, but you got all beautiful. Didn’t you.”

“John…”

There was no stopping John now. George recognised the signs. He wished he wasn’t in the inside seat.

“All beautiful and thin and carved, with the beautiful girlfriend – and how the fuck did that happen, eh? How did the snotty little fucker end up with the most beautiful girl, eh?” John punctuated his tirade with another slug of rum and a poke in George’s arm. “Look at her. Georgie has his own Brigitte Bardot, all to himself. And…”

“John.” George kept his voice calm. With an effort. “Stop working yourself up. You know bloody well Cyn’s lovely…”

“The golden couple.” John pursued whatever point he was making, the bit between his teeth, the rum in his brain, the speed in his system. “The delectable dollybird.”

“For fuck’s sake John…”

“Yeah. You’ve got it all. And I go back to the domestic cage.”

You’ve got it all.

Unbidden, against all his conscious will, George’s mind careened back, two days before their departure, befuddled, woken too early in the morning by what he slowly realised was the agonising sound of her bitter sobbing, her keening grief, finding her kneeling naked on the bathroom floor, almost in foetal position ironically, telltale signs next to her on the discarded nightie that it still hadn’t happened. She’d been so sure this time. It was so late. She’d been so sure. George crouched next to her, wrapped his arms around her and she let him hold her tightly and they rocked together on the chilly tiles. There’s plenty of time, he’d said quietly in her ear. It’ll happen. We’ve got years. Her sobs slowed, calmed and eventually stopped. He hugged her, they rocked together, he got her back to bed and he wrapped her in the blankets and went to make her some tea.

“Nobody’s got it all, John.”

There must have been something in George’s tone that punctured John Lennon’s miasma of rum-and-speed induced self-pitying rage. He turned, and looked consideringly at his undoubtedly chiselled but nevertheless annoyed friend. Annoyed and offended. He looked into the familiar brown eyes. He glanced down at his drink, and then back, and gave his familiar tight bitter smile.

“No,” he said.  “I know.”


	4. Landing

** Landing **

****

“Oi!” John squirmed, and blindly hit out with his arm, blindly because he hadn’t opened his eyes yet. “What the…?”

“Move over.”

“Wha…?”

George grunted as he landed heavily in his own seat, and wriggled to make himself more comfortable. In doing so he pushed parts of John Lennon off the armrest between their seats. This was quite deliberate.

“What’cha doing?”

“Sitting down.”

“Why d’ya wake me up?” John whined, rubbing his eyes like a toddler. George laughed, and shrugged.

“You woke me up.”

“Yeah. Well.” John yawned, sniffed and rubbed his eyes again. “Where you been?”

“Up the front with the others.”

“What d’ya do?”

“Just chatting.”

John leaned his head back and closed his eyes, and evidently decided that sleep had gone for the time being. “Got any smoke?”

George turned to his grumpy companion with a smile, and produced a ready rolled offering from his jacket pocket which he flourished in front of John’s nose. John leaned sideways and fished in his own pocket for a lighter, and George took the first drag before passing it back to John. The two young men settled back in contented silence for a while until John asked, “D’you know how long we’ve got?”

“Landing in about an hour.”

“Thank God!” and George nodded agreement with the sentiment. “What’ll you do when you get home?”

George looked directly at John in quizzical amusement, and John snorted dismissively. “Fer God’s sake, you know what I mean. I mean after that.” He passed the joint back.

George took a long drag and exhaled slowly as he leaned his head back against the seat. He shook his head lazily. “Dunno really,” he said, directing his gaze and words at the roof of the plane. “We haven’t talked about it. Six weeks!” He grinned happily, still at the roof. “When did we last have that long to do fuck all?”

“Is that what you’re going to do?” George turned his head towards his companion, and his eyebrows spoke a query. “Are you going to do fuck all for six weeks?”

“Doubt it. I mean,” He took another drag and passed it back to John. ”I wouldn’t mind, after all this.” He waved an arm in the general direction of the plane and everyone in it to illustrate what he meant by ‘all this’. “But she’s been at home all the time. Don’t think she’d take kindly to watching me sleep for six weeks.” He paused. “No, we’ll be going out, you know. Clubs, seeing people… that stuff.”

“Christ.”

“Eh?”

”I mean,” John paused, and then shook his head. “I mean, you’ve got a girlfriend who wants to get out, do stuff…” he paused again and looked at George. “I’ve got a wife who wants to stay at home and watch telly.” Another quiet snort, and he shook his head.

A silence fell, as George pondered as well as he could through the effects of the joint, what was the best reaction to this. He made a stab at a reply. “You’ve got Julian.”

He watched, in some dismay, as John ground out the joint in the ashtray in front of them in a distinctly angry manner. “So he has to be a fucking ball and chain?”

Oh shit, reflected George. What now. “He’s not a ball and chain. He goes to bed at about four. You’ve got a nanny thing. You can go out.”

“Yeah. But does she want to? No. She wants to stay in. So I sit there and get fatter and fatter…”

“For God’s sake don’t start that again!” George was not joking.

“No, ok.” John had the grace to smile, albeit faintly. “Oh fuck, George, I don’t want to sit and watch the fucking box all the time. And there’s you, who wants to sit at home and sleep.” He turned to his friend and opened his mouth to speak, and George forestalled him without missing a beat.

“No!”

“Come on…”

“No!!”

“She’s gorgeous and she likes going out for some action…”

“Fuck off!” He was laughing, knowing his friend was both joking and deadly serious at the same time. “Get your mitts off.”

“ _Ladies and gentlemen, we are approaching London Heathrow. Please extinguish your cigarettes and fasten your seatbelts…”_

“John,” George turned to the other and spoke seriously. “You know the grass is always greener. You know Cyn’s gorgeous too and you know you love her. Stop being stupid.” He stared at John and shook his head. “Yer being daft and you know you are. Pack it in.”

“We’re home!!” Ringo’s grinning face appeared over the back of the seats in front of them. “Hoo-bloody-ray!” George found that he had to smile back – Ringo in a good mood was infectious. “What you two doing?”

“John’s being an arse.”

“No change there then.”

“Alright lads?” Paul beamed at them and then pushed Ringo towards the window seat. “Move over. We’re landing.”

“Okay guys?” Neil sat himself across the aisle from John and fastened his seatbelt. “You got everything? You all okay?”

John Lennon and George Harrison looked at each other for a long moment amongst the happy and relieved hubbub bubbling all around them. “Yeah,” said John. “We’re fine.”

George met his gaze and nodded. “See you at yours for another go,” he said quietly. “I’ll phone you.”

Both men leaned back, closed their eyes and braced themselves against the ludicrous but inescapable fear of descent and landing.

When were they ever going to get over this?


End file.
